


they told me nothing new

by freezerjerky



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: He's been asking for you.ora man explores his memories in hopes he can find a way to free a friend





	they told me nothing new

**Author's Note:**

> Some introspective word vomit-
> 
> Inspired by an idea by [Alicia](http://rocketfool.tumblr.com) who was insistent that Hermann listened to Carly Rae Jepsen and who gave some very beautiful visuals of...how listening to her music would go.
> 
> This is my first attempt ever writing for this fandom (does it show?) so treat me with delicacy please.

As a logical man, it's easy enough to understand the root of phobias. In fact, there's no reason to feel claustrophobic in such an objectively large space. It's the stagnation of setting down roots in a place that feels designed to be temporary, a place that if things ever worked according to plan should be temporary. The point is, despite being at home in this space, Hermann is having trouble breathing and needs to leave the lab. This is a metaphor, of course. Physically, he's functioning the same as usual.

The air outside of the lab is just as stale as the air in. He could go for a walk and cope with a different sort of must and try to glean the sea air from the many manufactured scents. It shouldn't be as difficult as it is to have something fresh and alive. Instead, he craves the embrace of his own room and the freedom that can only come from feeling truly alone with his thoughts. He needs that more than ever these days. As with most days, he tries to walk back undetected. Small talk was never his forte, but it's even less so these days.

"Dr. Gottlieb."

Hermann takes a steeling breath. Most likely it's a simple question and then he's home safe. Besides, it's not like anyone expects him to be chipper when interacting with them.

He turns slowly. "Ah, Jake. Do you need something?"

"No- well yes. I just wanted you to know that he- they- whatever, he's been asking for you."

He clutches his cane more tightly. This could mean many things, he knows. The optimist that he's buried inside of himself hopes that it's actually his friend asking for him. The realist thinks it's probably a ploy to lure him in for some nefarious purpose.

It's only after he opens his mouth to speak that he realizes he's been sucking his teeth. Oh, the comments that would earn him from a certain person- the implication that he's an old man. "Yes, well, if anyone would actually allow me to see him..." he trails off, but the few words he's said carry enough weight.

"This is above me. I've tried to get you in there but-"

He's seen the footage, the way people talk to him- to them. Jake was not his kindest and nor was anyone else. Regardless of who has control of the body, somewhere deep down Newt is still there. Or he has to continue to believe so.

"I understand. It's the PPDC's choice, not yours." Nonetheless, Jake is in there often himself.

"I'm trying to get you in there. It's just taking some convincing. But we'll get there."

The next words he wants to share are very biting, but he sees something familiar flash in Jake's eyes. There's a kindness and a determination to them and he's reminded that he's not alone in this. This man is his father's son, even if he'd like to deny it, and that gives him hope.

Honestly, Hermann doesn't know if being kept away from Newt is a good or a bad thing, he just knows that he wants to be able to see him in person again. The words are not going to be his, but something about him physically must be. There will always be that spark behind the eyes and when that's gone, that's when there's nothing more to hope for. He supposes that's where the fear comes in. There's no precise word for the phobia of no longer recognizing someone by the look in their eyes, but he feels it acutely all the same.

He divests himself of his jacket and sweater once home, feeling bare enough in his shirt sleeves. Physical comfort is an objective matter and he never knows when someone will disturb his peace by knocking on the door. He's never cared much for image but he has to admit that there's a perk to always appearing professional or withdrawn. First, people leave him alone. Second, they're always pleasantly surprised by him.

There's a small desk in his space which he seats himself at. He's covered it with stacks of papers, not quite disorderly but not with any deliberate reasoning behind them. Paper lacks the charm of chalk in that you cannot erase it neatly and put away the ideas. Disposal is wasteful and even pencil marks are difficult to erase. Still, he retains a fondness for the words that cannot be erased and especially the stack of letters he keeps carefully preserved in the top drawer of the same desk.

On the top of the stack is a list, kept neatly even as individual items are crossed out and circled. He carefully lifts his glasses to his face and reviews the items as though he was not the same person who wrote this list. There's a disjointed nature to the items, but he's trying something new. On the top is written  _Replicating the Drift_.

This experiment means nothing and yet everything. He supposes it's this same chase to recreate feelings that has led him to this mess. Well, not him directly. He followed someone into this mess and can't handle the thought of letting this go. (Letting him go, but that makes him sound much more like a lovesick teenager.) On the top, crossed out elegantly is "electric shock" and it's followed by a series of items that are equally smudged and only a few remaining circled words. He revisits the concepts from new angles, hoping for some damned clarity.

**holding your head underwater to see how long it takes**

_He fills the bucket to the top, nothing to risk genuine drowning, but enough that he can simulate the feeling. There's something about being submerged that must ring true for this experience, if his memory serves him. He braces himself against the table and lowers his head reverently, slowly. This facsimile of drowning is calmer than anticipated, he's safe and secure and in a world that he can control. The human body has a very difficult time intentionally letting itself drown or hold its breath. That's the fighting spirit inherent to human nature. He springs up as soon as he's hit his threshold, gasping for air as though it's a once in a lifetime opportunity to breathe. He's connected to something but he's not sure if it's something bigger than him or the futility of his own actions._

Hermann debates for a moment and crosses that off the list. It was a good idea once, but he has no desire to test it again. He glances down at one of the most scribbled items, furrowing his brow at the memory.

 

**stubbing your toe after a dreadful nightmare**

_The nightmares wake him. They come, as if on schedule, during the most bleak hours of the early morning. it's early enough he tells himself he can still sleep for a few hours but late enough that he knows this is not true. Instead he stirs, gingerly reaching for his cane. There's no reason he can't keep his own hours and work as he sees fit. Once up, he fumbles in the dark, without the usual alacrity of his waking hours. The nagging nightmares in his mind certainly don't help and in his shuffling, he stubs a toe. Wavering a moment, he feels all the pain in one divinely clarifying center- every part of him for a moment is centered on a pinhole and then expanded again. It's the same amount of pain, just spread through every nerve in his body. He's acutely aware, in the expanse of pain, of a sense of dread and fear. There's something tethering him to a place that in the early hours seems so wholly undefined. Then, as abruptly as the feeling comes on, it slips away. The dark is still and there's no company in it but this is the reality he's gotten himself into._

That's the trick with memories. It's hard to tell when something is happening what will stick. Isolated incidents could make up the most pivotal seconds of your life and something as mundane as waking in the night could impact a life for years to come. He stands, carefully pushing out his chair as he does and chooses to anxiously putter around the room. If he pretends he's doing something, that means he does actually do something. And doing something means less time for being caught in his head. Yet, he knows this is what he needs, to be left to his own devices and thoughts.

He's just set about reorganizing his shelf when the words ring back in his mind, persistent. 

He's been asking for you.

Whatever that means. Hermann's processed those words as much as a logical man needs to, but he can't let them go nonetheless. It's not a real need, or a real person's needs and it's likely only to hurt others, or him, or to convince someone to let Newt go and yet-

What if there's some real truth in the words? What if delivering himself on a platter could be beneficial? Even if the Precursors are doing the asking, they can't anticipate everything. They can't anticipate what will help the man they think they can beat. He needs to know the power of this thing he shares with Newt and what he can make of it, even now. 

He wishes he knew the moment this change happened, the moment his friend slipped away and became something else. Was it immediate? Gradual? Did he hold on and lose a fight? It's inconceivable that a man, so persistent in all of his life, would let something happen, but Hermann's also not a fool. He knows Newt and he knows that the man wore his weaknesses on his sleeve. Or maybe this is stronger than the power of strengths and weaknesses.

That thought stalls him. Maybe he is a weakness himself. Or was a weakness. The weakness of friendship, or the one time weakness of something more. With the timing it is entirely possible that the Precursors were given this information to use, to sink their control in deeper. There's hope his friend was not immediately lost, which means he may still be able to be found. The most selfish hope is that it will not taint a dearly held memory, if nothing else.

**a hand holding onto yours**

_After they save the world, they both sleep for a day straight. Still riding high from the effects of the drift, though, he knows that Newt is awake now. Painfully, alarmingly awake. He knows instinctively to go to the door, to open it and let his partner/friend/antagonist/Newt in. Then comes the blur of moments, of memories, of over eager mouths together and the easy shedding of clothing to bare souls. It's a faded and delicate thing, this one evening, the one stolen moment between two understanding souls. It's fervent and awkward and there's no purpose to it, there's no end goal. This is the exchange of two men who are out of practice, out of breath, who in many ways have dedicated their lives to not being present in their bodies and how there's a painful awareness of who they are. The noises, the feelings, the little discoveries of nerve and sensation of touch. In the years that come, though, Hermann learns to anchor himself to one specific sensation: that hand reaching for his tightly whenever it can, grasping on for dearest life. The persistent reminder that someone else is there with him in this in-between place._

The thoughts still make him flush, a decade later. He's not the sort to engage in passion on a whim and there's the always the lasting emotional impact of profound attachment. Now, though? There's something in the pit of Hermann's stomach that runs cold.

 

**the same hand around your throat**

_The moment begins with a disbelief larger than the desire to survive. It's followed with a plea for life, for love. There was been so little touching in the years since and this is the punishment he deserves for wishful thinking. When he raises his hands to beg for freedom with his own gestures, the only resource he has left, it can only be done with the delicate tenderness of a lover. This is the only way to break into this immense thing between them, the gentlest stroke of a finger on a dangerous hand._

This will not do. While he is a man of facts and figures, he won't accept something like this as a reality of his connection. And yet...he objectively knows the intimacy of the moment. This act of violence, the fear and the moment of clarity is the only time he's certain he's connected with the real Newt in a decade.

He refuses to believe this sort of love can truly co-exist with such violence.

This is the truth: there is no value in revisiting the past to fix the present. These memories hang around him no matter what. It's more powerful, even if they can't change anything, to believe that they mean something. In the chance that Newt never returns, that this shell of a man filled with evil is all that remains, he has to hold on closely and tightly to what he's been given. Love has nothing to do with solving this problem, least of all a likely one sided love that's been held onto so tightly it was never given the chance to thrive.

Still, there's one thing he indulges in in pursuit of these memories- one thing that seems to have any sort of catharsis. Hermann knows it means nothing and he knows he doesn't care. He settles himself in his chair, reaching for his headphones. He slips them on gingerly, then searches for something to listen to. Something calm, or something that reminds him of another time. Not that something calm could bring back those memories. Chaos was more or less the crux of what made them so pleasant. He closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the music.

**a very poorly sung song**

_The music rings through the entire lab. Hermann should have known that leaving for only a few hours would be disastrous. He would like to say he doesn't know the song, at least to pretend he has the high road of elitism. There's really no reason to be listening to music so loudly, least of all in a work space. The sound that accompanies it is even worse, though. At best, Newt's voice could be described as endearingly bad. At worse, it was likened to primal screeching._

_"Hey, I just met you-" he pauses singing for dramatic effect. "And this is crazy-"_

_Newt is more or less elbow deep in kaiju viscera and his chair is definitely on Hermann's side of the lab. He's wheeling about without any consideration for where he can and cannot be and the singing does not end. There's a nostalgia for music, most any music, that happened before the first attacks, where even a vapid pop song can have its own value. He lets Newt continue, uninterrupted before he steps further into the room._

He's been asking for you.

_"Oh, hey Herms. Do you want to see inside of this spleen?"_

_"I'd rather not look inside a kaiju spleen so soon after lunch, Newton."_

_"Suit yourself but it's really impressive. Beautiful, really."_

_Hermann wordlessly moves to his chalkboard and begins to write. Only a few moments later, the obnoxious singing resumes, filling the sound of the entire lab. He's facing away, so Newt can't see his smile._

He's been asking for you.

_As he writes, he hears what is clearly the sound of a chair rolling over some guts as someone dance-experiments on the insides of a kaiju. Hermann turns then, a moody look on his face, but Newt remains immune. The song continues on repeat, and he's singing along with as much passion as could be expected._

_"Where you think you're going baby?" Newt warbles, very poorly._

He's been asking for you.

_Hermann could scold him, but it wouldn't accomplish anything. Instead he watches, just a moment, with a swell of fondness before turning back to his work. There's no reason to try to change Newt. Deep down he has no desire to change a thing about him, in fact. There's also no reason for him to actually admit that aloud. These moments can stay stolen and that's just fine._

He's been asking for you.

The words are grounding. Concrete. An absolute reminder. He has to believe this is not just a ruse. There is no hope and no higher power if he's become so connected with someone and then had that permanently severed like this. The pilots have always said that they could be found in the drift, no matter what. There's truth to this. The Precursors can ask for him as much as they want, but he has no doubt that Newt wants him as well. Tomorrow he will find a way to see him.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Things We Lost In The Fire" by Bastille
> 
> referenced song is "Call Me Maybe"
> 
> This may become a series or it may not...
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [Here!](http://pendragoff.tumblr.com)


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